


Boreas Over Veludo

by Luonto



Category: A3! (Anime), A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Mankai Company, Amnesia, August shows up in flashbacks, Autistic Arisugawa Homare, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Cuddler!Azuma, Eye Trauma, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, M/M, No Beta We Die Like August, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tutor!Tsumugi, Writer's Block, but just a little bit, ennui, wannabe florist tsumugi tsukioka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 02:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luonto/pseuds/Luonto
Summary: "The Spring Troupe is like a family, the Summer Troupe like school friends, and the Autumn Troupe like comrades for the same cause. What does that make us, then?""Noble figures fated to share the same destiny, perhaps?""...I guess I'd say our relationship is supporting each other when our burdens become too heavy to bear on our own."//Award-winning poet Homare Arisugawa grapples with the unchanging pace of everyday life.A mysterious man with no memory of his past finds his way to his apartment doorstep.The two's destinies become inexplicably intertwined together, drawing in those around them.Even without the common ground of Mankai Company, the members of Winter Troupe still find their way to each other.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Guy/Mikage Hisoka/Takatoo Tasuku/Tsukioka Tsumugi/Yukishiro Azuma, Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka, Fuyupoly, Guy/Yukishiro Azuma, Takatoo Tasuku/Tsukioka Tsumugi
Comments: 26
Kudos: 25





	1. Ennui in the Tokyo Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my first A3 fic! Let's hope I stick with and actually finish this one whoops.
> 
> Buuut yeah as a firm Fuyugumi stan and HisoHoma oshi, I've been wanting to write something focused on them for a while now. Eventually I began thinking about what would happen if there was no mankai to draw fuyugumi together- how would their bonds form? And boom, I wrote this chapter in one night lol.
> 
> Big shoutout to wayward_s's haikyuu fic 'A Thousand and One Nights' for kickstarting the writer juices again. I owe them one, and ATAON ended up becoming an inspiration for this fic idea.
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoy!

“No, none of this will do.”  
Arisugawa Homare took to his notes with a red pen, slashing and circling away at poetry scribbled in elaborate cursive. Each stab of the pen hurt- his poems were like his children, and having to ax some from the lineup for his latest anthology made him feel like a neglectful father. But there were only so many he could include. His editors had made it clear- one hundred poems in what was supposed to be a small collection was foolish. Once again, Homare had dashed forwards too eagerly and tripped headfirst over the line between reasonable and foolish.

Sometimes Homare wondered if his decision to move out of the family estate was a good one in the long run. ‘Veludo Way- Japan’s theatre heartland’ had sounded so romantic when he’d begun to look up properties in the Greater Tokyo Area.  
“It is a right of passage for a man to live away from home during his adulthood,” he’d told his grandmother and the assembled servants as they sat down for lunch in the Arisugawa mansion.  
“But you don’t need to,” his grandmother had stated bluntly. “You have all you could ever need here at home.”  
“Everything _except_ worldly experience. My poetry, as it stands lately, threatens to become stagnant.” He gesticulated wildly at the word ‘stagnant,’ screwing up his face with distaste.  
“Homare, put your fork down before you start waving your arms around.”  
“Sorry, grandmother. But I really am serious. It would be nice to live away from home for a bit- to make my own space with my own hands. Besides, it would give the staff more time to focus on looking after you. You aren’t getting any younger, after all.”  
“Thank you oh-so-much for that astute observation,” the older woman said dryly, but with a hint of a sparkle in her eyes. She knew from years of living with him that her grandson meant it in jest. With an irritable sigh, she raised one hand to her forehead and waved dismissively.  
“If it’s so important to you, then go ahead. Just make sure to write to us.”  
And with his grandmother’s blessing, Homare had packed his many suitcases and taken the train from Hachioji to Veludo, a few stops east along the Chuo line. 

The apartment he’d purchased (not rented, the Arisugawa family did not _rent_ ) was a few blocks back from the main thoroughfare of Veludo Way, with a nice overview of the nearby river and neighbouring Yosei University. The train trip into Tokyo had reminded him of the days their family driver had spent ferrying him to and from St Flora Academy in his boyhood days- though of course, the train was a decent amount slower and more crowded. Next came the days of unpacking, the struggle with the concept of paying bills (it seems the real estate agents did not have the common sense to include it with the house) and the purchase of a very expensive Baroque era mahogany dresser to lighten up the place. While the apartment, despite being a penthouse, was too small for the furniture he’d arranged to have shipped from home, he could still add little touches of the grandeur he desired.

And it was adjacent to this elaborate dresser, several weeks later, that he begrudgingly culled his collection of poems. The decisions had to be calculated- it would do well for him to match with an established theme throughout the anthology. Staring at his notebook, he sighed heavily. He’d been so wrapped up in the business of moving that he’d barely had time to actually write down his spontaneous musings. There were always a few fleeting poems that slipped past him (as expected of a man of such genius), but he had a hard time holding onto his thoughts these days. They seemed to skitter at the edge of his conscience, forcing him to work with older material, of which there was much to draw from. The days of a young rich twenty-something-year-old man were often filled with ennui and plenty of poem-making time. He’d often wander around the vast gardens of the Arisugawa estate, humming to himself as the fresh scent of roses coaxed verses from his thoughts. There were similar themes throughout the poetry of this period in his life- a sense of wonder for nature, the restlessness of passing time and dramatic, overblown romance. These themes would most likely underpin his next book.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Homare chewed thoughtfully on the end of his red pen and carefully drew a line between his old poems from home and the newer ones he’d written after moving to Veludo, writing ‘save for next volume’ in the margins. It marked a stark change, one that despite being self-initiated still felt strange and alien. To say he had underestimated the gravity of this move would have been an understatement. Homare Arisugawa seldom planned his ventures- he threw himself into them with reckless, good-natured abandon that often left him up the figurative creek without an imaginary paddle.

He reached for the mug of tea he normally kept by his side while he worked, then frowned when he noticed it was empty. A quick glance at his phone confirmed his suspicions- he’d worked much later into the evening than he usually did. Yet, when he examined his notes, it felt like he’d made much less progress than he should have in those four hours after he made himself dinner (another new experience). Sighing deeply, Homare put his pen down and stood up, stretching out his stiffening arms and back. It seemed like a late-night konbini run was in order.

* * *

Small, stuttering footsteps. A wavering figure limped through the streets. One eye blinked, watching as the tall, towering buildings undulated in their vision. Barely conscious, they continued on, barely registering the surroundings. They’d been walking forever, it seemed- for as far back as they could remember, they had been walking through city streets like these. A bleary eye had watched as those buildings soared higher, then shrunk as they journeyed in the vague direction of ‘west’. Their legs ached with the strain of days spent moving with barely any food to sustain those tired muscles. 

That familiar drowsiness began to creep into the corners of their eyes. One thought crossed their mind- get undercover. A feeling of cold rain soaking through their clothes and keeping them awake forced this shadow of a person to press onwards. Ragged, staccato breathing fell into a syncopated rhythm with their limping gait. The streets were not particularly crowded, and it seemed that the few passers-by did not notice them despite their torn clothes and zombie-like appearance. 

Eventually, passing a row of vending machines, they rounded a corner and staggered under an awning, collapsing against the concrete pillars and drifting off into unconsciousness.

* * *

The convenience store was fundamentally new for Homare. Occasionally back home he had gone to select ingredients for meals, but they were always from high-quality specialty shops with shining, lacquered cabinets and the finest things culinary Japan had to offer. This new world of shelves stacked to the brim with plastic-wrapped instant meals and processed snacks surprised him at every turn of these artificial food alleyways. Homare checked the price of a suspiciously-small baguette and raised one eyebrow before plucking it from the shelf, pairing it with a magazine and a collection of cup ramen that piqued his curiosity. Counting out change for the tired-looking cashier, he added a can of piping-hot coffee from the vending machine out the front to his konbini haul, humming to himself delightedly as he waltzed down the street, drinking in the night air. 

(The cashier, on the other hand, was happy to see the strange man in the pinstripe suit go. He’d said some unsavoury things about the quality of the store’s carrots while lining up.)

The streets of Veludo began to narrow the further away from the theatres you walked. Homare was wary of those pseudo-alleyways, as he called them in his head- another new experience. Fate, however, necessitated him ducking into one on the way home as a group of drunken salarymen barreled out of a nearby bar, bawling profanities and swaggering down the street. It wasn’t that he despised drunks- that would have been hypocritical, as he was quite the lightweight himself and alcohol only made him louder. It was the sudden, unexpected burst of noise that left him off-balance and reeling, their shouts burrowing into his brain like worms.  
“Good grief,” he muttered to himself, struggling to regain his composure. He began humming one of his favourite violin concertos, fingers tapping along the outside of his canned coffee to the melody. 

It took five minutes for the inebriated men to pass by, and another five for Homare to return to that relaxed state of mind he’d inhabited earlier. With a wavering exhale, he continued the walk back to his apartment building, following the signs to Yosei University’s Veludo campus. From there it was only a few minutes to the drab concrete tower he now called home.  
As he passed the looming skeleton of the university’s buildings, he exhaled with relief when the familiar front awning came into view- then almost choked on his own breath when he saw the slumped figure of a very ragged-looking man asleep on _his_ apartment front porch! One hand almost dropped his bag and the other dug his nails into the aluminium can. 

The man leaned against one of the awning’s support pillars as he dozed, snoring softly and unaware of the chill in the night air. He was clothed in a grey hooded coat with fabric that almost looked new, save for a few unsavoury stains. A rumpled red shirt and jeans completed the stranger’s outfit, both of them also relatively new-looking. Downy, snow-white hair framed his pale face and covered one eye all the way down to his chin. His face was the picture of relaxation; the way he clenched his fists and the odd angle of his right knee were decidedly not. He was, Homare concluded, an enigma. 

“Hello?” he called out, waving his hand in front of the strange man’s face. The only sign of response was a small twitch of his facial muscles. Homare frowned again and cautiously outstretched his index finger to prod at his cheek. No response. He sniffed the man once- no scent of alcohol on him, which ruled out drunkenness- and considered his options.

1) He could leave this stranger alone and be forever tormented by the mystery of his circumstances  
2) He could bring him upstairs and let him at least sleep somewhere warm- and maybe glean some information about why he was sleeping outside in late November.

His curiosity won that fight.

Gulping down the last of his coffee, he placed the empty can in the plastic bag and hiked it up over his shoulder before squatting down to slide his arms under this sleeping beau’s frame. With a grunt of exertion, he slowly lifted him up until he was holding the man almost bridal-style in his arms. He was surprisingly light as well, which pleased him.  
“This could be easier than I thought,” he mused out loud.

Unfortunately he had forgotten that the lift was out of order, and thus Homare had to carry the stranger up five flights of stairs. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow before sliding down the rest of his face as he struggled not to drop the man cradled in his arms, still snoring away.  
“The least you could do is wake up and walk upstairs yourself,” he complained as he passed by an old lady on the stairwell who had a look of utter confusion on her face. Cheeks flushed red from exertion and embarrassment, he cleared the last stretch of stairs and fumbled for his apartment keys. Pushing the door open with his knee, Homare speed-walked over to his couch and deposited his charge there, sighing with relief and massaging some feeling back into his elbows. Depositing the plastic bag on his kitchen countertop, he sat down at the coffee table with his notebook and pen, one eye trained on the sleeping stranger, waiting for him to awake.


	2. Awakening of the Sleeping Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone that left comments on the first chapter, your support and enthusiasm for this idea that's barely in its fledgling stages is much appreciated!! Comments really help keep my motivation high, so keep them coming heheh, they really do make a difference.
> 
> Please check the tags before reading this chapter, as Hisoka's injuries do get discussed in more depth this chapter.

The mystery man stirred fitfully in his sleep several times throughout the night, but did not wake. Homare began to wonder if he would ever open his eyes. The pendulum clock on the wall chimed cheerfully, announcing the arrival of midnight. With the coffee slowly making its way out of his system, the poet considered taking his leave and going to bed, leaving his sleeping prince to snore the rest of the night away. Late nights were not Homare’s strong suit, no matter how much caffeine he consumed. He prided himself on a strict sleeping and waking schedule most days. Tonight, however, did not seem to be one of these days. It was already an hour past his usual bedtime. 

Shaking his head and closing his notebook, Homare checked one last time to see if the sleeping man had stirred. But, as usual, he was still snoring softly on the couch, oblivious to the traffic outside.  
“I wonder if you will ever wake, my raggedy prince,” he mused to himself quietly, before grabbing one of his grandmother’s old knitted blankets and gently laying it over the man’s sleeping form. And with that last gesture, the young poet turned off the space heater and retired for the night.

* * *

He awoke to the monotone beeping of his alarm, followed by the hum of nearby traffic as workers swarmed like bees towards Tokyo’s skyscraper-filled business hive in Marunouchi and the other suburbs of Chiyoda. Yawning and stretching, Homare pulled back the curtains in his substantially-sized bedroom, spilling light onto his bookcases, the exposed-brick walls (custom built for him, of course) and a single Western-style bed.

“Good morning, Veludo!” he crowed cheerfully. Opening a window to drink in the morning air, his eyebrows furrowed as he caught the sharp, bitter scent of coffee wafting through the apartment.  
_Could that be him?_ he thought to himself, loosely pulling on his favourite dress shirt and pants. In a structured, procedural fashion, he methodically buttoned a waistcoat over the top of the dress shirt and tied a tie with a Windsor knot. Surveying his outfit with a smile, he went to check on his mysterious house guest.

He found said mysterious man in the process of dumping the contents of his sugar jar into a steaming mug of coffee, a concentrated look on his face. Homare’s eyes widened in horror.  
“Stop that at once!” he shouted. The man looked up, one peridot-green eye glaring at him through heavy lids.  
“...Too loud,” he mumbled in a soft, whisper-like voice. He glanced down at the mug, sniffed it once and scrunched his nose up.  
“Too bitter. It needs sugar.”  
The statement was so matter-of-fact and blunt that Homare found himself thinking _ah yes, of course it is too bitter, that much sugar is reasonable- wait a minute._  
“More sweetness may be needed, yes, but there is no need to use up all of my sugar!”  
The man stared at him for a minute as if to consider the offer, then sighed and put the jar down.  
“Where did you find that, anyway? I don’t recall buying coffee recently…”  
“Back of the cupboards,” the man mumbled, gesturing to one of the kitchen cupboards. Grabbing a spoon from the dishwasher, he thoughtfully added another three spoons of sugar to the coffee mug before wandering back over to Homare’s couch. He had a swaying, limping gait, moving through the apartment like a silent zombie.

 _He could have at least asked for a clean one,_ Homare thought to himself, before striding over to the seated figure.  
“You. What is your name?” he asked, hands on hips. The man paused, blinking slowly, then responded  
“Mikage… Hisoka.”  
And with that, he promptly fell asleep.  
Homare’s eyebrows shot up with surprise, hastily prying the mug from his hands and placing it on the adjacent coffee table. He then turned his attention to Mikage, attempting to shake him awake.  
“You’ve been sleeping all night! Wake up, Mikage-kun!”  
The other man blearily opened his eye and frowned.  
“You took my coffee,” he stated, looking rather put out.  
“Because you fell asleep.”  
“I was sleepy.”  
“You slept all night, Mikage-kun! How can you possibly need more?”  
Mikage shrugged and bent over to pick up his coffee, wincing as his oddly-angled right knee bumped against the table. He took a sip of his coffee and sighed.  
“You don’t need to be formal with me. Just Hisoka is fine...”  
Taking another sip, Hisoka glanced at the assortment of notebooks on top of the coffee table. One eye narrowed, and then he spoke six words that chilled the poet to the bone.  
“Who the fuck is Arisugawa Homare?”  
Said Arisugawa Homare was promptly rendered a spluttering mess.  
“I- of all the nerve, Hisoka-kun! Did you not realise that the charitable figure that rescued you from destitution, sleeping on the streets in the chilly autumn night air, was I, award-winning and published poet, Arisugawa Homare? Have you no taste for the arts?”  
“I didn’t need you to help me,” Hisoka retorted. “I was fine. It wasn’t that cold.”  
The conviction of his statement was undermined by the way he grimaced as he tried to move his right knee. Bending down slowly, he rolled up one pant-leg, exposing a horrendously bruised and swollen right knee. There was a raised bump in the skin that almost seemed to throb in time with his laboured breathing. Homare stood rigidly a few steps away, his eyes filled with shock and horror. He’d never seen an injury like this outside of the pages of his books. As panic threatened to grip his mind, he shook it off slowly by going through a list of possibilities and selecting the most logical one to act on.  
“Well then, we’ll definitely need to call an ambulance and take you to the hospital,” he stated in a shaky voice, reaching to pull his phone out of his pocket. Hisoka’s eye widened, and he reached out to grab Homare’s arm.  
“No hospital. No police. Please.”  
There was a sense of urgency in his voice that hadn’t been there before- like that of a hunted animal on the run, the police representing the baying hounds and men with guns not far behind.  
“It’s the most logical option,” he said slowly, glancing down at the injured knee.  
“You can’t let those go untreated, and my genius unfortunately does not extend to the medical field.”  
That didn’t deter Hisoka one bit. The hunted look in his eyes only seemed to grow stronger as he shook his head and repeated, “No hospital. No police. Please.”  
Homare took a deep breath in and exhaled shakily.  
“Fine. I will not call the local hospital. However, will you at least consent to examination by a private doctor? He has served my family for years, and I am sure he can be trusted to keep your strange secrets, whatever they may be.”  
Hisoka stared at him for a minute, then nodded, picking up his mug of coffee and slowly sipping at it. Homare sighed again and began the process of making a phone call to his family home (Grandmother did not carry a mobile phone with her, no matter how much they begged her.)

* * *

Thankfully, chief butler Takeo had confirmed that Doctor Nakagawa had some spare time that day to make the trip from his clinic in Hachioji down to Veludo. With the promise of a midday consultation, Homare put the phone down with a relieved sigh.  
“Now you can rest at ease, Hisoka-kun,” he said, turning to face the other man, but found him fast asleep on the couch again, the mug hanging from the fingers of his right hand.  
“Good grief,” he muttered to himself, then strides over and carefully pried the empty mug from his fingers, placing it in the dishwasher. Leaning against the kitchen countertop, he felt his stomach begin to complain. In all the chaos of Hisoka’s awakening, he’d forgotten that he needed to eat breakfast.

Today’s beginning meal was a toasted konbini baguette with lashings of French marmalade, a moving-out gift from his grandmother. It was nowhere near as lavish as his breakfasts at home, but he found that these days he enjoyed the relative simplicity of his diet. The marmalade had the perfect balance of sweet and sour, and the bread was surprisingly filling despite its small size. Gazing out the window at the hustle and bustle of students arriving at Yosei University, he made himself a cup of Earl Gray tea, picked up his notebook and continued his corrections while he waited for the doctor to arrive.

Doctor Nakagawa was a stout, slightly balding man in his early fifties, dressed in a simple grey suit and carrying a briefcase at his side. Homare remembered him as a somewhat disagreeable man, easily irritated at times by his questions, but his care was impeccable and his skill in the medical field was second-to-none among the private doctors that serviced Tokyo’s elite.  
He acknowledged Homare a curt nod when he entered the apartment, surveying the apartment briefly. When he spotted Hisoka dozing on the couch, the doctor raised one eyebrow suspiciously.  
“Friend of yours?”  
“Hardly. I found him sleeping outside my apartment last night,” Homare explained. “He seemed like he needed somewhere warm to stay.”  
Nakagawa grunted and moved to examine the sleeping man, then exhaled sharply when he saw the state of his knee.  
“Definitely looks broken. You were right to call me.” He gently shook Hisoka’s shoulder, and he stirred as if on command.  
“I’m a doctor,” Nakagawa explained gently when he noticed the confusion in the young man’s eye. “You’re in pretty rough shape. Can you tell me how you hurt your knee?”  
A look of concentration crossed his pale, ghostlike features, followed by a small shake of his head.  
“I don’t… remember,” he mumbled.  
“Well that certainly complicates things,” Nakagawa muttered grumpily. “Do you have any documentation on you, like a wallet?”  
Hisoka reached into his coat pockets, then shook his head again.  
“What do you remember?”  
“....Nothing.”  
Nakagawa put his head in his hands and glared at Homare.  
“I came here to treat a leg injury, not deal with memory loss. You know I’m not a psychologist, kid.”  
“I… I didn’t know,” Homare replied, sulking. Hisoka’s memory loss wasn’t _his_ fault!

The doctor turned back to his patient and pulled a notepad from his pocket.  
“Let’s start with the basics. Name?”  
“Mikage Hisoka.”  
“Age?”  
“25.”  
“Date of birth?”  
“December 3rd…” At the end of that last response, Hisoka had drifted off, and Nakagawa had to shake him awake again.  
“Do you remember what year it is?”  
“...2016?.”  
“2017. Imperial era?”  
“Heisei.”  
“Do you remember where you lived?”  
“No.”  
“Any family?”  
At the mention of the word ‘family,’ Hisoka seemed to stiffen, a faraway look in his eyes. When he finally shook his head to answer the doctor, his eyes almost glistened.

“I was right- probably amnesia. He really should go to a hospital,” Nakagawa told Homare, eyebrows furrowed with concern. Hisoka’s arm extended with lightning speed and gripped the older man by the forearm.  
“No hospitals. No police,” he said with the same panic in his voice as earlier that day. Nakagawa exhaled through his nose heavily and gently pulled Hisoka’s hand away.  
“I’ll do what I can for his knee and give him a general check-up to make sure nothing else is damaged. Whatever Mikage-kun has been through has obviously shaken him a lot, so it’s no use prying too far just yet. Go wait in your room or something.”  
“As you say, Nakagawa-sensei,” Homare answered, bowing deeply. He then retreated back to his bedroom and waited anxiously for the results.

* * *

Almost an hour later, the doctor knocked on his bedroom door and gave him the (mostly bad) news.  
“I’ve realigned the broken bones and given him a splint for his knee,” he explained, handing Homare a piece of paper covered with spidery handwriting.  
“He’ll need to use crutches for the next six to eight weeks, so I’ve arranged to have some sent over later today. Make sure you return them- I know how forgetful you can be.” He prodded Homare in the chest, causing the poet to bite back a string of protests.  
“Other than the knee, he’s got some old scarring around his right eye and limited light perception on that side, but it looks like an old injury, so he should be alright. My biggest concern is his amnesia. There’s no signs of head trauma, which is suspicious, but his drowsiness still points to a concussion. Make sure he gets plenty of rest- no TV, no phones, no books or games. Recovery for that will take up to two weeks, and after that, if he still doesn’t remember anything, go see a psychologist. If anything gets worse, call me immediately.”  
Homare thanked him again, and Doctor Nakagawa packed away his instruments into his briefcase, striding towards the apartment door.  
“Oh, and one more thing- make sure you feed him,” he called out. “He hasn’t had anything to eat for the past three days. Get some delivery or something.”  
With that, the doctor closed the door behind him, leaving Homare with a list of instructions and Hisoka still asleep in his usual spot. Once again, Homare had made a reckless, altruistic decision that had left him with a lot more work than he expected.  
“I guess it can’t be helped now, can it?” he mused, picking up his phone and searching for a place that would deliver lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the injury stuff wasn't too much, ooft.
> 
> But thank you once again for reading! With uni assignments coming up the pace may slow a little, but I'll try to keep churning out instalments for you when I can!


End file.
